


Tip Back the Scales

by Palebluedot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff, Historical, I know Nothing about twelfth century europe and yet..it is my setting, Stargazing, referenced alcohol abuse by a minor character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 20:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: “Do you think you could miracle the cellar door open for me? I don't like to use heavenly means for lock-picking, even if it is ultimately righteous.” He paused. “Or at least neutral.”“I don't domiracles,”Crowley huffed, but he snapped his fingers anyway.---Or, be gay, do crimes: the Good Omens story.





	Tip Back the Scales

Jostled about from place to place by the crowd, Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. Although it was, of course, his duty to love all aspects of the Almighty's creation, privately he had to admit that so far, Europe's take on the twelfth century failed to impress. This squalid mire of pig muck couldn't hope to hold a candle to the marketplaces further east, where they were doing things more properly. Oh, but if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was there instead. He could almost smell the turmeric, the anise, the fennel, the sweet bite of —

Sulphur. He smelled sulphur.

Whipping his head around, Aziraphale cast his eye out over the throng, and, yes, he could _just_ catch a glimpse of a familiar head of red hair bobbing over a black doublet. A brief flash of joy seized him.

“Crowley!” he called, changing course to investigate. “Is that you?”

The head turned. “Aziraphale!” Crowley — for it _was_ Crowley — pushed through the crowd towards him. When they got within proper speaking range, he eyed him incredulously. “What in hell's name are you wearing?”

Aziraphale smoothed the skirts of his bliaut. “It's _French_.”

“That explains it.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “Well, what brings you here, then? It's been some time since I saw you last.”

“Ah, just business. I'm supposed to pay a visit to the monastery up the hill, flash the eyes, breathe some fire, scare a few monks half to death and shake their faith to its very foundations. The usual bit,” he shrugged.

“That's funny,” said Aziraphale, though it wasn't funny at all. “I was just on my way to the same monastery. I'm meant to bestow upon them a vision of perfect, heavenly glory to birth their faith anew.”

“So we're just — ”

“Cancelling each other out again. So it would seem.”

“Fuck _me_ ,” Crowley spat, scuffing at the ground with the toe of his boot. Aziraphale didn't strictly approve of such displays, but he couldn't argue with the sentiment. Nevertheless, it _was_ good to see him.

“Well, since we're both here, we may as well make the best of it. Shall we walk up there together, keep each other company?” Aziraphale asked, offering his arm.

Crowley gave his arm a withering look over the tops of his glasses, but fell in step with him all the same.

“It won't be so bad,” Aziraphale said encouragingly, when Crowley continued glowering. “Quick in-and-out temptation, then you can pop on home.”

“Yeah, suppose you're right,” said Crowley. “Except it's _consecrated ground_. I _really_ don't fancy dipping into consecrated ground, especially to achieve a net result of zero.”

That gave Aziraphale pause. “I hadn't thought of that,” he said, and shuddered. Consecrated ground was powerful stuff. He'd always heard it could make a demon burst into flames the moment they set foot upon it. Not a pleasant thought to have about a friend.

But not an unavoidable one.

“Well...I certainly wouldn't want you to get hurt,” Aziraphale said cautiously.

“You wouldn't?”

“So I suppose we could just...skip it?”

“Really?” Crowley stopped in his tracks, mouth open in a wide, shocked smile. “Didn't think you had it in you, angel!”

“Just this once!” Aziraphale cautioned, holding up a stern finger. Crowley had the good grace not to remind him that that's what he said last time. And the time before.

“Well, then,” Crowley said, now walking with small spring in his step that Aziraphale couldn't help but smile at, “drinks are on me.”

 

Unfortunately, the only decent tavern they could find served — 

“Piss,” sneered Crowley, knocking his glass over and dumping the contents onto the table.

“It's not _so_ bad,” said Aziraphale, chancing another small sip. Disgust spasmed across his face unbidden. “...All right, perhaps it _is_ piss.”

Crowley burst into raucous laughter, more than the quip deserved, sprawled back in his chair with his head thrown back. Aziraphale watched a moment, his cheeks tinged pink. He couldn't quite tamp down on his own smile. Although all were abhorrent to the palate, their method of trial and error through the establishment's offerings _had_ succeeded in getting them quite nicely tipsy, and it was harder to keep such things in check. It made less sense that he _had_ to.

The front two legs of Crowley's chair slammed back into the ground. Aziraphale jumped, then surprise gave way to worry when he caught sight of the gleam in Crowley's eyes. It was a very good gleam. That was the worrying bit.

“You know,” he said, leaning across the wine-soaked table, his voice low and conspiratorial. Aziraphale leaned in too, just a little. The gleam got _gleamier_. “You know where I hear they keep the _good_ stuff?”

 

“Just so I understand,” Aziraphale said, squinting at the moonlit monastery, “you're willing to cross consecrated ground to steal wine, but not to do your job?”

“In my defense,” said Crowley, hopping from one foot to the next at the edge of the grounds, seemingly to steel himself for the task at hand, “I've heard it's _really_ good wine.”

Aziraphale frowned. The buzz of the horrid tavern fare had worn off slightly between the walk and the nighttime air, and worry slid back in its stead. After a moment's dithering, he nodded. “I've changed my mind.”

“What? Come _on,_ angel — ”

“It's not right.”

“And skipping miracles is?”

“That's _different_ ,” Aziraphale insisted. “If we _both_ skip it, then it's a neutral result for the monastery. We save them a good deal of confusion and trauma, even. But if we steal from them, it doesn't break even anymore. Your side wins, a little. It's not right, and it _certainly_ doesn't look good for me.”

Crowley considered this. “Well,” he drawled after a moment, “I happen to know that this particular abbot rather frequently, ah, _over-imbibes_.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. Then he understood. “Because you —”

“Yes, all right, because I once tempted him into it. Don't get _too_ self-righteous, it was his choice in the end. My point is, by decreasing its availability to him, we're protecting him. Sort of.” He inclined his head towards Aziraphale. “Another point for your side.”

It was a weak argument. In his heart, Aziraphale knew this. But there was just enough of wine and moonlight in the air to allow him to set this aside, at least for the time being. “It's not in my nature to object to a good deed,” he said delicately.

“That's what I like to hear!” Crowley said, clapping him on the back. Perhaps Aziraphale was still slightly intoxicated after all — his cheeks were warm again. “Shall we?”

“Wait!” Aziraphale cried, catching Crowley by the shoulder as he began to walk forward. “I should be the one to go. It's dangerous for you, with the consecration and all.”

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that, that's just...I mean, that's a really good point, thank you. By all means,” he said, gesturing ahead.

“Do you think you could miracle the cellar door open for me? I don't like to use heavenly means for lock-picking, even if it is ultimately righteous.” He paused. “Or at least neutral.”

“I don't do _miracles_ ,” Crowley huffed, but he snapped his fingers anyway.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale smiled. “Back in a tick.” And he crossed the grounds alone.

With his companion behind him, the night was dead quiet but for his own footfalls. There were a few hours yet until morning prayers, so the bells and the choir were silent. It was a small shame. The desertion suited his current purposes, of course, but any other time Aziraphale would have liked to hear them. Those old songs could be quite stirring when they wanted to be. And, of course, some of the monks were wonderful scholars, working tirelessly at transcribing and illuminating those manuscripts that so fascinated Aziraphale. And yet, he took no joy in approaching the building. The songs, the stories, and, of course, the wine — all these things were lovely, but he could feel no imprint of that on the building that housed them. Just a rather severe-looking pile of damp and dreary stone.

He reached the cellar door, and it opened silently.

“Let there be light,” he whispered, and there was. He looked around, and sure enough, there was the wine, great casks of it, although some was already bottled — and oh dear, that must be the abbot snoring in the corner.

“Wuzzat?” he snorted, blinking at the light.

“Go back to sleep,” Aziraphale ordered, throwing out a hand. Obediently, the abbot slumped forward. After a moment's thought, he added, “When you wake, you will find your affliction cured. And that you've had a very pleasant dream.”

Eager to be gone, Aziraphale picked up two bottles and replaced them with a handful of miracled coin. Not stealing anymore, then. Just an unauthorized purchase. It was cheating a bit, but what Crowley didn't know wouldn't kill him.

He extinguished the light, and left the abbot smacking happily in his sleep.

“I'll be damned, you actually did it,” Crowley whispered when Aziraphale approached with their prize in hand.

“I'm an angel of my word,” he replied, handing Crowley a bottle.

Gleefully, Crowley slung an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder and uncorked the bottle with his teeth. As Aziraphale watched, he spat the cork out by the roadside and took a long draught. Were circumstances different, Aziraphale might describe the expression on his face as rapture. “This is _brilliant_ ,” he said, “you have to try this,” and he pushed the bottle into Aziraphale's hands, never mind that he was holding one of his own. Aziraphale drank and found that the lip of the bottle was wet, from spilled wine or the heat of Crowley's mouth he couldn't say, and he also found that Crowley was right. It was _divine_.

They walked awhile, walked close, Crowley's arm not leaving Aziraphale's shoulders and their fingers brushing as they passed the wine between them until it was down to dregs, and by the time they opened the second bottle, it was someone's idea — Aziraphale couldn't say whose — to stop walking and lie on the hillside instead.

The grass smelled sweet. Morning dew was not far off, but the sky didn't know it yet, still dark and gleaming with its full host of stars.

“All in all,” said Crowley beside him, “this has been a much better way to spend the night than frightening the daylights out of some monks.”

“Twice,” added Aziraphale, and there was that laugh again, right in his ear. He was glad of the dark; it hid his damned flush. To avoid looking to the side, Aziraphale let the muffled, giddy buoyancy carry his eyes upwards instead. Stars upon stars, points that weren't points but spheres that weren't spheres at all, but roiling, seething masses of impenetrable fire that gave life and beauty to countless other skies.

“Do you ever think,” he asked, shifting his weight on the uneven ground, then started over. “There's lots of worlds out there, all...spinning about and ticking and being important. Do you ever think we spend too much time worried about this one?”

“Nah,” said Crowley. It struck Aziraphale as a rather short answer, but he let it be. Maybe it was a silly question. He stayed silent, trying to find a new topic of conversation while still worried about the old one, and then Crowley said, “I like this world. All my stuff is here.”

Aziraphale knew without looking that Crowley was looking at him, but turned to see it for himself anyway. He was grinning at him, wicked and warm and _lovely_ , and Aziraphale felt a great bloom of answering warmth in his chest. Perhaps it was helped along by the wine, but mostly it came from stars, for their own beauty's sake, or for the way they dramatized the glorious sprawl and splendor of the Divine Plan that put him here, on this hillside on this warm night with his dear, dear friend of thousands of years. It didn't matter which. Both moved within him, just as simple electricity and divine grace both moved within him, allowing him control enough of the muscles of this borrowed body to lean forward and press his lips to Crowley's.

It was soft, and so much better than the wine it tasted of.

It was _wrong_.

“Oh, dear,” he whispered against Crowley's mouth. With a jolt, he pulled back, sat up. “Oh, dear,” he said again into his own hand.

“Angel —”

“Oh, _dear_.” Aziraphale very much wanted to stand, to flee, but his limbs were still too heavy, his mind too dazed.

“It's all right —”

“No, it _isn't_!” Aziraphale cried. “I know we bend the rules on occasion, and I don't pretend to know what your side has to say about — about this sort of thing, but I'm fairly certain _my_ side believes that angels absolutely aren't supposed to fall — aren't supposed to do _that_ with demons.”

The silence before Crowley spoke stretched just long enough to be maddening. “Well,” he said at last, “for what it's worth, our lot don't have many rules, but I don't think we're really supposed to kiss angels, either.”

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale whispered miserably. With one move, he'd proven himself a bad angel, and a worse friend. He wasn't certain which burned more, and that did not help matters one bit.

“What for?” Crowley asked. “Technically speaking, I still haven't. _You_ kissed _me_. So...maybe there's still something to be done.”

Aziraphale turned to face him. A glimmer of light reflected in his yellow eyes, not from the stars, but from the moon. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying,” said Crowley, hesitant, impossibly so, “that if you wanted, maybe I could...cancel it out?”

 _It's not so much a_ temptation _as a choice,_ he recalled Crowley saying, long ago and countless times since. _I just present the options, it's up to them to say yes or no_. This was an option Aziraphale could refuse. Crowley knew that, and offered anyway. And he had just as much to lose.

“That might help,” said Aziraphale, though he knew it wouldn't.

Crowley smiled, a little of the serpent in his eyes, but none at all in his touch, the gentle way he took Aziraphale's face in his hands.

Behind them, on the hill, the bells tolled in the morning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I fully own any historical inaccuracies, because history is but a playground built so that we may, collectively, make our little dolls of these two kiss at any given point across it. 
> 
> Comments are love! <3


End file.
